Sir Anthony leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he took in the unexpected sight. “Well, now,” he said slowly, a sly grin forming on his lips. “Mr Bennet, isn’t it? Hiding in Mr Darcy’s carriage, no less. I wonder what business you have here. Were you planning to rally support from elsewhere before the election, perhaps? And who is this…?” His gaze shifted to Elizabeth, then quickly back to her father—no doubt tracing a resemblance. “Ah, the daughter, of course. Elizabeth Bennet.” His smile widened, realisation dawning. “So, Wickham was right. It seems there is more between Darcy and your family than I was led to believe. This does complicate things.”
Elizabeth met his gaze with a defiant glare, her pulse quickening. “Sir Anthony, there is no need for this hostility. We are simply trying to make our way safely—”
“Save your breath, Miss Bennet,” Sir Anthony cut her off sharply. “Appearances speak for themselves. And it seems to me you’re in a rather compromising position, travelling in Mr Darcy’s carriage, are you not?”
Elizabeth bristled at his insinuation, but before she could respond, her father spoke up, his voice steady but firm. “Sir Anthony, if it is leverage you seek, using my daughter in this infamous manner will gain you nothing but my deepest contempt. Release us at once, and we can discuss matters like rational men.”
Sir Anthony chuckled darkly. “Oh, Mr Bennet, you misunderstand. I have no intention of letting you go just yet. In fact, I think it is high time we return to Netherfield and have a proper discussion—with Mr Darcy present, of course. I am sure he will be delighted to see his guests returned safely.”
He stepped back and gestured to the coachman with his pistol. “Turn the carriage around. We are going back to Netherfield.”
The coachman hesitated, but a sharp look from Sir Anthony—and the threat of the pistol still aimed squarely at his chest—left him with no choice. Slowly, he began to turn the carriage, the wheels creaking against the muddy road.
As the carriage haltedbefore Netherfield’s entrance, Elizabeth’s eyes darted to the grand doors, searching for any sign of movement. Sir Anthony’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he gestured for her and Mr Bennet to disembark. A shiver ran through her, partly from the damp chill of the morning air, but mostly from the cold dread settling in her stomach.
There was no sign of Darcy. Where was he? What had they done to him?
“Come along,” Sir Anthony urged, his tone unnervingly light. “I believe Mr Wickham will be quite pleased to seewhat we’ve brought him.”
Elizabeth glanced at her father. He gave her a brief nod, but his face was now greyer than she had ever seen. They had no choice but to follow, at least for now. Her mind spun, scrambling for any plan that could get them out of this situation. But each thought led back to the same question: Where was Darcy?
As they entered the foyer, Mrs Nicholls emerged from a side door, her expression carefully neutral. She looked at Elizabeth and Mr Bennet, her gaze sharp, almost calculating. Elizabeth felt a flicker of hope. The housekeeper had shown herself to be a decent woman before. Could she be an ally now?
“Ah, you are the housekeeper,” Sir Anthony said brusquely, hardly sparing her a glance. “Tell your master I am returned.”
Mrs Nicholls hesitated. “The master called for his carriage an hour ago, sir. I do not know how long he intends to stay away.”
Sir Anthony scarcely troubled himself to conceal his impatience. “Very well. We shall await him in the drawing room. Let Mr Wickham know as soon as he returns that I have brought him a rather… valuable surprise.”
Mrs Nicholls inclined her head, her eyes darting quickly to Elizabeth. There was a fleeting look of understanding there. “Of course, sir,” she replied smoothly.
Elizabeth felt a faint stir of relief. Did Mrs Nicholls grasp the seriousness of the situation? The housekeeper discreetly gestured to a younger maid, a girl who moved with quick, practised steps. The maid’s eyes flicked from Elizabeth to Mrs Nicholls, and without a word, she slipped away into the shadows of the hall.
Sir Anthony did not appear to notice. He continued to usher Elizabeth and her father into the drawing room, rambling about Wickham’s plans and the need for their “cooperation.”
Elizabeth scanned the room as they entered. It was empty. No sign of Darcy. A wave of panic rose in her. Where could he be? She needed to find him, to see for herself that he was unharmed.
Her father squeezed her arm gently, his touch steadying. “Stay calm, Lizzy,” he murmured, his eyes locked on Sir Anthony.
But calm was the last thing she felt. She cast another glance at Mrs Nicholls, who seemed to be moving more slowly now, perhaps trying to distract Sir Anthony. Was she stalling for time? Was this a signal that help was coming?
Moments passed, each one dragging like an eternity. Then, she caught sight of the younger maid returning, her movements even more urgent, though still quiet anddeliberate. She whispered something into Mrs Nicholls’s ear. The housekeeper’s face remained composed, but Elizabeth could sense a shift.
Mrs Nicholls turned back to Sir Anthony with a professional smile. “Sir, may I suggest that we have tea brought in while we await Mr Wickham?”
Elizabeth’s frustration swelled as she was ushered into the drawing room, her eyes darting frantically about for any sign of Darcy. Sir Anthony’s face was a mask of irritation, clearly displeased that Wickham had left without warning. Elizabeth tried to focus, to think clearly, but her mind kept circling back to Darcy. She couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering alone, potentially at Wickham’s mercy.
Mrs Nicholls appeared some minutes later with a silver tea tray, her face carefully composed. She poured the tea with a practised hand, but Elizabeth saw the fleeting look she cast in her direction—a glance that held far more than mere concern.
“Miss Bennet,” Mrs Nicholls said softly as she offered her a cup, “perhaps a bit of tea will settle your nerves.”
Elizabeth shook her head, her voice coming out in a harsh whisper. “I do not need tea, Mrs Nicholls. I need to know where Mr Darcy is.”
Mrs Nicholls poured the tea with a steady hand, but Elizabeth could see the worry etched in the lines around her eyes. As she placed the cup in Elizabeth’s trembling fingers, she leaned in just enough to whisper, “Miss Bennet, Mr Darcy is unwell. He is in Mr Wickham’s study. We have summoned Mr Jones, and he is with him now.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt into her throat. “I must see him,” she whispered back urgently, her fingers gripping the teacup so tightly she feared it might shatter.
Mrs Nicholls shook her head, a faint, almost imperceptible movement. “No, miss,” she whispered softly, casting a cautious glance towards Sir Anthony. “It would be too great a risk. Mr Jones is doing all that can be done.”
